


You Can Call Me Al (The Clubbed to Death Remix)

by Daegaer



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:19:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schuldig becomes a little too closely entwined with a target.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Call Me Al (The Clubbed to Death Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lady_Ganesh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You Can Call Me Al](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640) by [Lady_Ganesh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh). 



> Thank you to my beta, Louise Lux!

"We do this quick, and we get out," Crawford said, walking fast towards the doors. "Come on, stop sightseeing."

Schuldig looked up, and _up_ at all the glass reaching for the clouds and thought about the noise it would make if it shattered. Crawford was right, he thought reluctantly. There was no point in standing around, staring like he'd never been in a city before. Anyway, it wouldn't do for Crawford to think that America had anything in it to hold his attention; it would only give him a more inflated opinion of himself than he already had, and then he'd probably float off into the –

"Hey, Crawford, is the stratosphere above or below the troposphere?"

"Above," Crawford said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Why the sudden interest in atmospheric science?"

Yeah, his ego would definitely get him to the stratosphere. "No reason. Tell me again how this job serves Eszett's aims?"

"It's paying for our flights back to Europe. Now, stop talking and get ready."

Crawford led the way through the doors and across the lobby, past a bank of receptionists. Schuldig appreciated the way no one even thought to ask if they should be there; Crawford might be young but he always looked like he was someone who had the perfect right to get wherever the hell he was going. The only thing he held back on was the increasingly irritating habit he had of looking at Schuldig in a way that they both understood very well, full of obvious lust and hunger – and then getting the hell out of the situation as fast as he could. He was suffering from a severe case of cold feet all the way up to his blue balls, as far as Schuldig could see. 

Right now, however, there was the target, standing with his mountain of a bodyguard as the elevator's doors opened. Jesus, they were too late – his dawdling _had_ slowed them down. Crawford was going to _crucify_ him if they had to draw undue attention, he didn't need to be a precog to know that. Fine. Rescue the situation, deal with it without making Crawford break into an undignified run, and see if Crawford's head exploded from sexual frustration at the same time. Win-win all round. Except for the target.

Schuldig broke out his most innocent smile and skipped, just a little faster than most people could run, past Crawford and into the elevator, spinning round as the doors closed to stick his tongue out like a naughty kid.

"You're too slow," he said cheekily. _Relax_ , he added. _I've got this_. And up they went, with the glorious memory of Crawford's eyes widening just a little – in surprise, oh, _yeah_ \- and his mouth just about to form what was either a little "o" or perhaps an undignified, _Oh, fuck_.

Schuldig spread his sunny smile around the elevator, noting the total lack of response from the target – who the fuck did this Antonin guy think he was, anyway? It's not like his platinum albums were actually made of platinum – and the skeptical look from the bodyguard.

"Oh, _wow_ ," he said, going for as close to Crawford's accent as he could. "You're _Antonin_. You're _amazing_ \- can I – would you – can I have your autograph?"

He pulled out a little notebook and stepped closer, aiming to get between them, and the mountainous guard held out an interposing hand like a polished piece of wood.

"Give Antonin his space, man."

Schuldig drooped, radiating harmlessness, soaking up the guard's half-amused contempt for skinny, green-haired, little twinks with no dress sense. Now the giant asshole was looking at what he could see of the phone number Schuldig had written on his hand – he thought it was a come-on to Antonin, good; Schuldig could tell Crawford later he'd written the pizza delivery number on his hand for just that reason – and was speculating on how much noise he'd make if a _real_ man held him down and fucked him. Just like Antonin –

– well, _that_ was interesting. _Autograph, fucker_ , he thought at Antonin, hard and pointed as a weapon. _Now_.

"It's all right, Jonas," Antonin said, holding out his hand for the notebook. 

"Yes, sir."

Schuldig moved closer, offering the notebook and a pen. _Get the autograph, it might be worth something, especially with his blood on it_ , he thought, _then, pen through the jugular. Fast turn, dislocate the big asshole's kneecap, finish him with a knife, catch my breath, see if the target's still with us and fix that._

"Name?" Antonin said.

"Schuldig. Do you want me to spell it?"

Antonin made a little moue of carefully practiced boredom and scribbled across the pad, holding it and the pen out. "Here."

"Thanks," Schuldig said, sliding it back into his pocket and reversing his grip on the pen.

Antonin's face slackened in sudden shock and he pushed at Schuldig in ineffectual panic.

"What the fuck?" Schuldig said, and then the guard threw him to the other side of the elevator.

"Don't let him near me! He was about to hurt me!" Antonin shrieked as Jonas got between them and Schuldig dropped into a fighting stance, hitting the Stop button.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Was this bastard some sort of precog? Maybe this job served Eszett's ends after all. He aimed a kick at Jonas's knee, but for a guy who looked to be nearly two metres tall the bastard was fast and the blow ended up hitting his thigh. If he lived he'd be limping for a while, but he wasn't down.

Schuldig ducked under a blow of Jonas's huge fist and punched him in the kidneys. It got him a grunt of pain but not much more. As Schuldig was thinking how unfair it was that a fucking pop star had a bodyguard who apparently wasn't for show, Jonas landed one on him, a solid body blow that winded him and sent him backwards, his head cracking back painfully against the edge of the elevator door frame. Schuldig's vision darkened and he felt nauseous, barely rolling to one side before the next blow came in.

 _Stop_ , he thought, as strongly as he could and it felt really _wrong_. At least the little fuck was looking beat and if Antonin could just stop fucking shouting, it would be all right, it would, as long as Jonas could deal with this it really would –

"Oh, great," Schuldig said. "No shields." He had to stop this now, before things really got out of hand. He whipped his knife out and slashed at Jonas's leg, opening a long gash across the undamaged thigh. Finally the asshole was slowed down. Schuldig hit the floor, rolled and came up behind him, stabbing strongly and surely. His spinal cord cut, Jonas went down.

"Don't go anywhere," Schuldig said pleasantly, flipping his jacket open. Yeah, he had been carrying, but had been too sensible to start shooting in such close confines. And now he wasn't going to get the chance; Schuldig knelt and cut his throat, too weary to avoid the spray. He clambered back to his feet and looked over at Antonin, now plastered against the wall in the corner, frantically trying to call the police. Schuldig took the one step that was all that was needed, and slapped the phone out of his hands.

"Please," Antonin said, " _please_."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to use this," Schuldig said, holding the knife up so he could see the blood on the blade. He smiled. "Everything's gone to fuck anyway, so I may as well enjoy myself."

It was always funny how much people offered up when they were in pain; sex, bank details, all their deepest and darkest secrets. Really, it was too bad for such talkative people that the only thing that made Schuldig feel better when he felt like shit was making other people feel worse. And then feel dead. He smiled a little groggily down at his new best friend, his head full of Antonin's pain and terror. He replayed some of the memories he'd soaked up, savouring the taste of expensive liquor and the feel of designer clothing. Nice, very nice. _Careful_ he reminded himself, _don't get too deep without shields._ Back to work. He bent over Jonas's body and took his gun. Not a bad weight. He went to one knee beside Antonin.

"Do you think you could sing the same without teeth?" he asked, and smashed the butt down, full force. As he drank in Antonin's renewed pain he started coughing, and felt that he was choking. He retched and spat to the side, thinking he saw tooth enamel on the elevator floor, but when he ran his tongue around his mouth all his teeth were fine. _He_ was fine. Maybe just a little tired. So what if he was getting a little bleed-through? Everyone got it now and then. He shifted his balance on the gun and brought it down again.

He finished things off eventually with good, old-fashioned strangulation, kneeling on Antonin's chest, his head spinning with the disorienting experience of looking up at himself as his vision faded, his heels drumming on the floor. Then he hit the ground floor button. He'd think of something. _Someone_ would think of something. The elevator made an unhappy sound and didn't move. He hit the button again and this time absolutely nothing happened at all. He stared at his hand, which didn't look – right, though he couldn't say why. Something had gone wrong, he thought, looking round with a slightly puzzled frown. He sighed and sat down amidst the carnage to wait for whatever would happen.

When the doors started to grind open again he stood up. It wouldn't do for Antonin to be found sitting on the floor like some loser emo moron. He flicked back his hair and grimaced at the rat's tails of matted blood. Fuck. This was just not how he wanted to be seen. He half-hoped the engineers looking in, their faces slack with shock, didn't recognize him. There was someone else there as well, a face that was familiar, though he couldn't really put a name to it – Brent or Ben or something, one of the security guys who stood in for Jonas now and then. _Jonas_ , he thought, and put a hand to his head.

"Fuck," he said. "That big asshole hit me."

"Sir," Brent or Ben said, "You shouldn't have gotten away from me. You know it's not safe." He extended a hand down into the elevator and hauled him up past the engineers. "Farfarello, we're ready."

Another white guy, young, _really_ young, and scarred like a horror show sauntered past them.

"What a terrible thing has happened," he said, in a weirdly happy way. He had a knife in his hand.

"Come, sir," Brent or Ben said, before he could say anything, taking his shoulders and moving him down the corridor. "We need to get you cleaned up."

"Do you think I have a concussion?" he asked, touching his hair and grimacing at the repulsive feel.

"We'll put some ice on it."

Brent or Ben was tall and good-looking, in a sort of boring way. Although maybe that was the cream suit. He leaned in and put an arm round him. 

"Ice would be good. Maybe get me a drink too?"  


Brent or Ben sighed. "Maybe, sir. Perhaps you'd like to wash your face first?" He steered them both into a bathroom, and glared at the middle-aged guy doing up his chinos.  


"Out," he said, and the guy went, fast.  


Brent or Ben dampened some wadded up paper towels and held them out. Antonin took them and looked at his reflection, feeling a little dizzy as he did so. It didn't look right. That was probably the blood spattered across his face. He scrubbed it clean and tossed the towels in the trash.  


If you could give me your jacket, sir," Brent or Ben said.  


"It won't fit you."  


"I'll just carry it."  


Antonin watched him fold it so the blood didn't show, then he took the cream suit jacket off and held it out. Antonin took it and just stared.  


"People are going to notice that, Brent."  


"Brad, and I'm not going to wear this outside," Brent – Brad – said, taking off the shoulder holster. It, and its gun, vanished inside the folded jacket, and then Brad took him by the arm and they went down the stairs and out onto the street. Five minutes later Brad had them checked into an anonymous hotel.  


The headache retreated a little once he had ice to hold against the sore spot and a vodka to quench his thirst. Antonin sat on the bed and flicked on the TV, channel-hopping as Brad took a call.  


"Hello? He's . . . fine. His head was cut but he's all right."  


_God. Since when did he pay his security to start acting like PR?_  


"No statement to the press," he snapped. "I'll do something myself, when I'm recovered." Whoever Brad was talking to laughed loud enough for him to hear.  


"You heard him," Brad said, and, "I'm sure I will." He hung up, and a strange look crossed his face, like he was somewhere else, then just _back_. Antonin didn't like it.  


"What are you doing?"  


"I'm . . . thinking, sir."  


Huh. Well, _thinking_ didn't make people look like they'd been caught out.  


"Stop it."  


Antonin looked down and caught sight of what he was wearing. Jesus. Had he got dressed in the dark? Had someone _else_ dressed him in the dark?  


"What the hell am I doing in these clothes? They're _hideous._ " He unbuckled the belt, pulling it out of the loops, and paused at the sight of it hanging from his fingers. Had his skin always been that colour?  


Brad got his attention back to the more pressing matter of his disgusting clothes. "You're supposed to be incognito, sir. Or did you forget?"

"I'm not incognito in here." He pulled the horrifically ironic nylon shirt out of his pants. Antonin did _not_ do ironic. "How long are we going to stay here? I have a photo shoot."

Brad shrugged. "I took the liberty of rescheduling."

"Did you."

Antonin went to the bathroom to shower. Maybe Brad was his PA. Who had a gun. And who could learn his place. He tossed the clothes out the door.

"Get these laundered, or burnt, or donated to some street guy. And get me _my_ clothes."

He sniggered in the shower, imagining Brad's face. The only way that would have been more satisfying would have been to say it in Austria in front of all the Elders. He frowned, and shampooed his hair a third and final time. Weird. He'd never played in Austria. Maybe he should.

Combing his wet hair out he was disconcerted again by his reflection, how he seemed shorter, paler and the wrong body shape. The pain in his head when he wasn't careful enough in combing was distracting, but he still found his eyes drawn back to the stranger in the mirror. As long as his reflection didn't start talking to him, he decided. One psycho in the team was enough.

There weren't any bathrobes, so he wrapped himself in a towel and went back out to get himself another vodka. Brad looked at him in a _Let's pretend I'm not looking_ way, so he took his time bending over to choose exactly which remaining one of the original two brands he'd drink this time. When he turned round, Brad had dropped the pretense and was definitely _looking_.

"Come here," Antonin said, beckoning.

Brad – went away. It was like before, only magnified, as if he were looking somewhere else, at something a long way off. It was the kind of look people had in horror movies just before a demon started speaking through them, though at least here it just indicated a precog searching through possibilities within possibilities –

Schuldig snapped his head up as the last traces of Antonin fell from him. _Shit_ , he thought, as the sudden movement made his head hurt, and then, _Thank fuck, I have shields again_. He put the drink down and put a hand on Crawford's arm.

"Crawford, stop it."

"What –" Crawford said, coming back and looking a little confused.

"You almost got lost there, stupid," Schuldig said. "You don't have to do this to yourself."

"How long -"

"Eh," Schuldig said. "It's been coming back, flashes here and there. Your vision face finally sealed it."

". . . I have a vision face?"

Schuldig smirked in glee. If only he'd been able to record that tone of hurt innocence as a tool of blackmail and torment. He walked Crawford back to the bed by dint of getting in his personal space and making him back up, then pushed him to sit down. Crawford closed his eyes, pointedly not looking at him, and retreating behind currently rather shaky shields of his own. Enough was getting through to make it clear how much he wanted to look.

"You shouldn't keep doing this to yourself," Schuldig murmured in his ear. "You're only making yourself miserable."

"I'm cautious," Crawford said.

"We're past that," Schuldig said. "I can be Antonin again. If you want, I'll give you orders. You might like it." Oho. _That_ sparked some interest, even though Crawford was pretending to himself that it hadn't. "There are three of us now," Schuldig went on. "I'm sure Farfarello would be delighted to stab me if I threatened you in any way. Or if I didn't."

"Don't complain," Crawford said, in a fairly normal tone of voice, "he cleaned up your mess."

"I'm hardly complaining, I think he's working out nicely." He let his lips touch Crawford's ear lightly.

"Will you please stop?"

"You don't want me to."

"You're not reading my mind," Crawford said, guardedly.

Your body's saving me the trouble." _Hah._ Crawford looked like a kid who'd been caught jacking off by his mother.  


"I'm not--"

"Will it really be so bad?" Schuldig sat, leaning into him and putting a hand high up on his thigh. "Will it really make you so much more vulnerable?" _Two years_ , he thought, remembering Crawford _looking_ and drawing back, pretending nothing was going on. _Two years too long_.

And damn it, _now_ Crawford was thinking that he was being manipulated.

Schuldig rolled his eyes. He'd had a _much_ more trying day, Crawford could cut him a little slack. "Does it really matter?"  


"I suppose it doesn't," Crawford said, and - _finally!_ \- pushed Schuldig back on the bed.


End file.
